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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29847405">Devil Town</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/molemoon/pseuds/molemoon'>molemoon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Gen, Kid Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Revenge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:03:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,397</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29847405</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/molemoon/pseuds/molemoon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After Stick leaves, Eleven-year-old Matt Murdock gets an idea into his head. A terrible, wonderful, stupid idea that would make his dad tear his hair out. But Matt's dad isn't here anymore.</p><p>Set in the same universe as the show, but this time The Devil of Hell's Kitchen is a pre-teen with a grudge and a goal: to catch his dad's murderer and maybe save some lives along the way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Daredevil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Warnings for canon-typical violence, mentions of disordered eating and brief references to sexual assault and CSA. Just because Matt's a kid doesn't mean he doesn't face the same kinds of people.</p><p>This is set in a similar timeline as the show, but with a different plot in accordance with the changed circumstances! There are certain features of the show-canon Matt probably isn't going to find out about yet *cough* Fisk *cough*. Foggy and Karen have gone down slightly different paths without Matt having been part of their lives.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I expected too much of you,” Stick says. </p><p>And then, like pretty much everyone else Matt has ever cared about, Stick leaves.</p><p>A little piece of Matt goes with him, leaving a hole he tries to fill with schoolwork and church and food, but remains open nonetheless. Like a sore under a callus, or an ulcer under the skin.</p><p>Stick would have told him to get his head out of his ass.</p><p>Matt vows not to let anyone so close again.</p><p>He fills his life with the Braille practice he'd skipped when training with Stick, bashes out essay after essay with an old Braille typewriter the nuns scrounge up for him. Prays like a good Catholic boy. Helps the nuns fold laundry and clean floors, until the other boys call him suck-up behind his back and hide all his socks.</p><p>He thinks about Dad, about bullets in dark alleyways and mysterious voices saying to <em> go down in the fifth </em>.</p><p>Dad would want Matt to focus on school. “You don’t want to be like me,” he’d say, and muss up Matt’s hair. And Matt does, for a time. </p><p>But at night, his legs twitch and jerk with energy Matt has no longer has use for. </p><p>Once, at dinner, Sister Judy comments that he’s “putting on a bit of padding,” and Matt knows she’s joking but it brings a wave of hot, heavy, shame. Later, face hot and puffy, he prods at his stomach, tight against his jeans.</p><p><em> “Look at you,” </em> the Stick in Matt’s head sneers. <em> “Lounging around like a prize piglet while your Dad’s killer remains free.” </em></p><p>He starts training again that night, creeping down to the basement to pummel laundry bags and do push-up after push-up. It doesn’t take long to replace the pathetic chub with wiry muscle, but Matt keeps training. Just in case.</p><p>Then comes The Idea. A terrible, stupid, wonderful idea that would make Matt’s dad tear his hair out. But Dad isn’t here anymore. And his killer is.</p><p>It’s a particularly miserable Sunday afternoon. The combination of the summer heat and a badly burst oil tank has the St Agnes’ kids cooped up inside, packed into the common room in their scratchy church clothes to make noise and snap at each other.</p><p>Matt has tapped his way over to Katie in her clunky wheelchair. He likes Katie. She’s a few years older, but her cerebral palsy means she faces the same unwanted pity as Matt. She’s not a friend as such - Matt doesn’t do friends - but he likes to think they have an understanding. He reaches out to gently touch the paper in her hands.</p><p>“What are you reading?” he says.</p><p>“B-atman,” she says in her slow, careful way. “It’s good. You want me to d-d-describe it to you?”</p><p>“Sure,” Matt says, and sits down beside her. She’s not patronising about it like some of the other kids. The nuns mean well, but they’re usually too busy to spend time reading. Sometimes one of the older ones will offer, but there's always a smugness to it. Look at me, they seem to say. Reading to the blind kid. Katie is different. Words don’t come easy to her, but hell are they well selected when she gets them out. People tend to interrupt her or talk over her, finish her sentences for her, but Matt can feel the way her heart speeds up when they do. So he listens, and in return she doesn’t treat him like he’s five.</p><p>"Why is he even called Batman?" Matt wonders aloud. "Does he echolocate or something?" </p><p>Katie laughs, not unkindly. "No, s-s-silly," she says. "He just looks like one."</p><p>"I remember what he looks like," Matt grouches. "But he can't fly, and he can't echolocate, so what's the point?" I could be a much better Batman, he thinks to himself childishly. Like Spiderman over in Queens. He could use his senses to find his way around, listen for criminals and leap out when they’re not expecting him. He’s small, yes, but Stick has taught him size is of little importance if your form is right. <em> BatMatt </em>, he thinks stupidly, and almost laughs out loud.</p><p>He thinks about it like a fantasy he visits every night. Could he? Go out there and catch Dad’s killer like Bruce Wayne caught Joe Chill? Life isn’t a comic book. But he’s old enough to remember the Incident. Who’s to say what’s realistic anymore?</p><p>For the first time since Stick left, Matt allows himself to listen to the sirens.</p><p>Four days later has him lurking in the courtyard with some of the other boys, in the hidden bit out of view of the nuns. The boys are taking turns tiptoeing on top of the high wall separating the orphanage from the street, egging each other on in hushed tones.</p><p>In a burst of courage driven mainly by boredom, Matt scrambles onto the wall too. The boys shriek with laughter and delight. Matt shows off, holding his cane up like a tightrope walker and playing to the crowd. Dozens of them have shown up at the commotion.</p><p>“Daredevil,” someone says, and it catches on. “Daredevil,” the kids chant loudly. “Daredevil, daredevil!”</p><p>Too loudly.</p><p>
  <em> “Get down from there this instant, Matthew Murdock!” </em>
</p><p>Matt freezes. The crowd goes silent. Sister Anne strides up, hot with anger and Matt realises, fear. </p><p>It’s that last part that rankles him the most. Any of the others would get a scolding, but not him. No, he gets <em> fear </em>, because clearly the blind kid doesn’t know what he’s doing. </p><p>And so without really thinking about it, he launches himself off the wall and onto the street below. He laughs breathlessly at her sharp intake of breath. He'll be punished later, but it's worth it when the chant starts up again; "Daredevil, daredevil, daredevil!"</p><p>Every superhero needs a name.</p><p>Sister Maggie has him scrubbing floors all afternoon. She hovers at his shoulder and lectures, but her heart isn’t really in it.</p><p>“You could have been seriously hurt,” she scolds him.</p><p>Matt rolls his eyes when she isn’t looking. “Because I’m blind.”</p><p>“Because you are an eleven-year-old boy.” She sighs. “And yes, because you are blind. Admitting that does not make you weak, Matthew,” she says, surprisingly gently.</p><p>Matt imagines telling her that he knew the street was empty, that the ground was smooth and the pavement clean. That two metres was nothing, Stick had proven to him time and time again. But he can’t. So he simply scowls, and waits for her to leave him alone.</p><p>He remembers several weeks previously, when Matt and some of the other boys had been rooting around in the donation box for sweaters. He’d found one he liked, soft and brand new, without the layers of sweat and mustiness worked into the others. It had what he had assumed were cat ears sewn into the hood.</p><p>
  <em> Sister Elizabeth’s heartbeat spikes when she sees him. "Where did you get that?" she says weakly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “The donation box?” Matt says, confused. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Take it off and choose another," she orders immediately. "Give that one to me.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Why?" Matt says crossly. "I like this one." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Now, Matthew!" She snaps. </em>
</p><p><em> He listens bewilderedly as she takes the hoodie outside, shuddering and holding it at arm's length. "Giving </em> that <em> to a children's home," she whispers furiously as she shoves it into the bottom of a dumpster.  </em></p><p>
  <em> "What was that about?" He asks no one in particular. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The boys snigger. Eventually Adam, one of the older ones who’ll be leaving soon, takes pity on him. "It really wasn't that bad," he says. "Sister's just being Sister. It was red with devil horns on the hood. And, uh, a tail.” </em>
</p><p>The Murdock boys got the devil in them.</p><p>He’d rescued it mainly out of spite. But- </p><p>Every superhero needs a costume.</p><p>That night, he pulls the hood of the devil over his head for the first time. He ties a ripped habit across his eyes, triple-knots his sneakers, and climbs out of the window and into the night.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Over the next weeks and months, he learns how to move as Daredevil, to bob and weave and dance around his enemies. It’s different to fighting with Stick because Stick never focused upon strength to take Matt down; Matt simply had to match him. The thugs he stops usually rely on weapons or bulk rather than any real technique. Stick taught him to recognise the click of firearms and the whistle of blades, so all he needs to do is be faster. He’ll drop down from fire escapes onto their shoulders, or barrel into their legs and trip them up.</p><p>If they grab him he’ll wriggle out of their grasp, privately thanking God that Stick had been so strict on him getting out of holds. He realises the joy of climbing his enemies; Stick would never have let him close enough, but the big ones don’t expect him to snake out of their grasp and onto their shoulders. A couple of good strikes to the temple, and they’re down. </p><p>Some of them make laughable attempts at boxing or high-school karate, but Matt doesn’t bother to reciprocate. He isn’t here to fight fair. He heads first for their knees to take them off balance. If that doesn’t knock them down then a hit to the groin or gut will. Then he kicks them in the head for good measure. It’s often over in seconds. </p><p>He learns to wrap his hands and wrists before he goes out. After a couple of sprained toes he steals a pair of Dr. Martens from one of the rare women he takes down. He has to wear three pairs of socks, but he’ll grow into them. After a bad experience with a man wearing steel-tipped boots and several cracked ribs he barely manages to hide from the nuns, he gets some sheet metal of his own and nails it to the tips of his boots. He confiscates two lightweight yet nasty billy-clubs off some mob enforcer and incorporates them into his fighting. </p><p>On quiet nights he runs along walls and leaps off roofs, practicing somersaults and perfecting his aerial cartwheel.</p><p>People start to whisper about the Devil Boy, the Little Devil, and a flurry of other names. Most people think he’s a myth, but that’s okay. Stick always said not to draw too much attention. He’s managed to toe the line between urban legend and local vigilante so far, and as much as he’d love to be Hell’s Kitchen’s Spiderman, he’s not ready for that yet. </p><p>Some of the crimes he stops stay with him. He’s heard the cries and the sirens since the accident, but they were almost always distant. Now he runs toward the screams, hearing every detail and knowing he needs to run quicker, fight harder. The smells lodge in his nostrils and sometimes make him throw up.</p><p>Sometimes he’s too late. Once he comes across a man with a bullet in his head and the body takes the form of Dad. He doesn’t sleep for days after that, barely waiting for lights out before he’s up and out, catching a few hours of sleep in the morning before school when he’s too exhausted to dream. </p><p>They worry, some of the sisters. He can feel Maggie’s gaze on him sometimes, and he knows she’s noticed the bruises. She thinks he’s getting into fights. Little does she know just what kind of fights. </p><p>He knows at some point they’ll find his bed empty and he doesn’t know what he’ll do. For now, he shoves pillows under his blankets and hopes the fact that he has his own room will save him.</p><p>He beats men off women and learns the meaning of rape.</p><p>“Why are you doing this?” One of the women asks Matt dully.</p><p>“If I don’t, nobody else will.”</p><p>“Seriously kid? You’re what, ten?”</p><p>“Thirteen,” he lies. “I won’t stop, so don’t tell me to,” he adds defensively. </p><p>But the woman seems to understand. She nods slowly and takes a drag from her cigarette. “Wait,” she says when he turns to leave. “You know Joey’s place? The club.” Matt nods. “You ever in trouble you come round the back and ask for Cora, you got that?” </p><p>“Okay. Thanks Cora.”</p><p>One night, he hears a little girl crying. It’s not a new sound; Matt lives in a children’s home full of little girls crying. </p><p>But there’s a man’s voice with her, and Matt knows in his bones that something is horribly wrong. </p><p>Matt's instincts scream at him that he should climb up there, burst through the window and make him stop, but his head and several months experience tell him that wouldn't solve anything. He wouldn't be able to do enough, not without terrifying the little girl.</p><p>Instead, Matt follows the man. Learns his schedule - specifically his early morning shifts at the railway yards - and strikes when he isn't expecting it. He drops onto the man's shoulders so hard that he knocks the man down, and  shoves the bag over his head. Then he lets the devil out.</p><p>He won’t be hurting his daughter again. And if he does, Matt will be listening. </p><p>He climbs up to the little girl’s window before he returns to the orphanage. </p><p>"He won't hurt you anymore," he promises. "And if he does, shout as loudly as you can. Just shout for Daredevil and I'll come."</p><p>She cries, and attaches herself to Matt like a limpet. He finds himself hugging her back just as tightly. </p><p>To his surprise, she drags him into her tiny bedroom and begins to thrust soft toys into his arms. She shows him her favourite Barbie doll and Matt pretends to be impressed. She’s called Evie, he learns, and her favourite colour is red because of Matt. He visits regularly after that.</p><p>"I'll be there Evie," he tells her every time. "If you need me, I'll come."</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Then he is stabbed for the first time.</p><p>He misses the knife in the guy's boot and catches the blade in his side. It hurts almost as much as being blinded, and he cries like a baby, long and loudly as if crying loudly enough would make Dad come back.</p><p>He hides out at the docks, holding his rolled up t-shirt to the wound until he falls into a fitful sleep. By the time he wakes, dizzy and in pain, it’s noon.</p><p>He can't go back, he realises. They'll have noticed he's missing at breakfast. Someone will have gone up to check on him. They would have found the pillows under his blankets. They've probably already called the police. </p><p>There was a kid at St Agnes when Matt first arrived who kept running away. Simon. He’d ended up in a secure children’s unit. Then there’s special homes for disabled kids, where they watch you 24/7 and never let you go out without a chaperone.</p><p>He’d known it might come to this. And it’s not like he’d miss much. None of the other kids will bother him anymore. No more timed showers, regimented hours to eat and sleep, or “free time” spent in the awful common room. No more of the institutional smell he spends most of his waking hours trying to block out. </p><p>You’ll miss school, the voice in his head warns. You’ll never be a lawyer like Dad wanted. And you’ll miss Sister Evelyn and Sister Maggie and Father Lantom.</p><p>This is more important. Getting Dad’s killer is more important. And Daredevil’s saving lives. If Matt hadn’t heard Evie crying, the abuse would still be happening. </p><p>He can go back to school in a year or two, he tells himself. Maybe he’ll stop being Daredevil when he’s got whoever murdered Dad. Just for a while. He can go back to school and still be a lawyer.</p><p>For now, he wraps his t-shirt around his wound, promising himself that he’ll get hold of some antibiotics later. He’ll raid St Agnes’ infirmary for a suture kit; he still remembers how to do them. </p><p>He crawls through a tiny window into the basement of one of the buildings on the dock. He can hear the buzz of electricity that tells him this place is on the grid, but it doesn’t seem to be in use right now and this little store room hasn’t been touched in years. When he’s better, he'll block off the inside door so the small window is the only way in or out. </p><p>He’ll have to steal food, but it’s worth it for the lives he’ll save, right? He bets one of the warehouses will store food. They’ll never notice a few bits going missing. And there are plenty of crooks who carry vast amounts of cash around like it’s nothing. Being light is useful anyway; it’s easier to twist and climb. </p><p>Matt might be a little scared right now. But he’s Daredevil too. And Daredevil isn’t afraid of anything.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Reporter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Matt sets out to find more information on his dad's killer, and meets someone who might be able to help.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Matt waits until nightfall to head to St Agnes’, only crawling out of the basement window when the sounds of the city tell him it’s gone midnight. As much as he’d like to stay curled up in his little hidey-hole, he’s got to sort out the wound. He’ll creep in, grab medical supplies and go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To his surprise, a group of the sisters are still awake when he gets there, huddled in the kitchen. He stops, crouching against the external wall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We should have predicted something like this would happen,” Sister Maggie is saying, and Matt realises they’re talking about him. “We knew he wasn’t sleeping. Barely eating.” She sounds cold and angry and Matt shivers despite himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You couldn’t have known, Maggie,” someone says, gently. Sister Evelyn. “He was grieving. You were giving him room.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maggie says nothing, but there’s a rustle as she takes off her veil to run a hand through her hair. Matt blushes, even though there’s several walls between them and he wouldn’t be able to see it anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s no need to play the blame game,” Sister Anne says brusquely. “He’ll turn up soon. The runaways always do. He’ll get hungry or cold and realise he’s better off in a nice warm bed. And if he doesn’t come back himself, the police will find him and bring him home. No need to fret.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What if he didn’t run away,” Sister Elizabeth whispers. “With what happened to his father, what if they came back for Matthew?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t be ridiculous Elizabeth,” Maggie snaps, but she sounds uncertain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“His cane and backpack were gone,” Sister Evelyn interrupts. “If he’d been kidnapped they wouldn’t have taken those, would they?” Matt privately thanks God that he always kept his cane folded up in his bag. “And his bed was full of pillows. I’m as concerned as you all are, but that kind of speculation never helped anybody. Anne’s right. We should trust Matthew to be sensible, and the police to do their jobs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt’s heard enough. He creeps on, pulling himself up the side of the building and trying to ignore the twist of guilt. He could go back right now. Maybe even say he <em>was</em> kidnapped. That would explain the stab wound, at least.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wouldn’t get Dad’s killer caught. He helps himself to sutures, antibiotics, and anything else that seems like it might be useful. He grabs blankets, clothes and canned foods from the donation box outside the church and hurries back towards his new home. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wound tears open again as he crawls through the window, so he grabs the medical supplies first. “Here goes nothing,” he mutters. He yanks off his hoodie and feels for the wound, then cleans it, hissing. Stitching the wound actually stings less than cleaning it, but it’s still a relief when he finishes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughs slightly breathlessly, falling back against his blankets. “Holy crap,” he says. Then wriggles upright again to pop open the can of coke he’d brought, slurps at the foam, and lets himself drift off.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He spends the rest of the week making his new home livable, filling the basement with stolen blankets and blocking up the inside door so that the window is the only entrance. Nobody comes to the building in that first week, but he sleeps easier knowing he’ll be undisturbed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His idea of taking cash from criminals fails miserably. It’s not that he can’t get money; it’s that he has no idea how to use it. He can’t tell what any of the notes are and when he tries the streets in the daytime he gets completely lost without his cane. A blind kid wandering around alone would get too much attention so his cane is out of the question, but crowds confuse Matt’s senses and make him, well, blind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nights are easier, so he sticks to theft and tries not to feel too bad about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rest of the time Matt spends bundled up in his blankets and thinking about Dad’s killer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t have much. Just the scraps of a conversation. “You go down in the fifth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chews on the corner of his blanket and goes over what he knows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One. Dad was meant to throw the fight. He didn’t, so someone shot him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two. This guy was rich. He paid Dad lots of money to throw fights.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Three. He was Irish.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rich Irishman who pays boxers to throw fights.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not a lot to go on, but there’s no doubt in his mind that this guy killed Dad. If he didn’t take the shot then he gave the order. Matt’s to blame some, yes, but he’s paying his penance. This man reached out and took Dad’s life like it meant nothing, over something as stupid as a bet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt won’t kill him. He’s not a murderer. Dad wouldn’t be a fan of anything Matt’s doing right now, but he definitely wouldn’t want Matt killing anyone. No, Matt will make him wish he was dead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He heads first for  Fogwell’s; it seems as good a place as any. He finds himself a perch on the roof and spends the next few weeks as resident gargoyle. On the colder nights he doesn’t head back to the basement at all; when the gym is closed he creeps in for a shower and a few hours of sleep in one of the store cupboards.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s calming to listen to the men’s conversations. Sometimes they mention Dad. Occasionally the talk about Matt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you hear about Murdock’s kid? He went missing a month ago. They think he ran away.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Poor kid. I’ll keep an eye out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes the creaking of the heavy bags lull him into a doze and he dreams that he’s in the gym practicing his braille again. But Dad isn’t there; instead the mystery voice keeps telling Matt he has to<em> go down in the fifth.</em></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the end though, it’s not Fogwell’s that gets him the name he wants.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s wandering in the vague direction of the gym in the early hours when he hears a scream - not unusual, though it’s usually pretty quiet at this time - and catches the telltale click of a firearm safety-catch being clicked off. He hightails it across the rooftops just in time to leap onto the shoulders of a man pointing a gun at a woman.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guy clearly doesn’t expect Matt’s drop bear trick and he flails about long enough for Matt to get a good grip around his neck, but not before releasing a bullet that nicks Matt’s thigh.</span>
</p>
<p>“Shit!” Matt says as they topple.</p>
<p>Matt takes a moment to clutch at his leg. It’s not too bad; the light, coppery smell tells him that the wound’s only skin deep.</p>
<p>The woman runs to kneel beside him. “He shot you!” She exclaims, seemingly more upset about that than the fact she was almost about to be murdered.</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” he assures her. “He just grazed me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should call an ambulance! Take you to the ER at least.” She takes in his expression. “But you won’t go, will you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s astute. “No,” he agrees. He should probably be gone by now, but his leg stings like a bitch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re what, twelve? With a gunshot wound. And you won’t go to a hospital?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt scowls. People always make a big deal out of the age thing. Matt can take down groups of men twice his size in minutes, hear whispers from a block away, take stab wounds without flinching and it still comes down to the age thing. “No,” he says coldly. He starts to pick himself off the ground. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait,” the woman says. “I’m sorry.” She helps pull Matt to his feet. “You’re the Daredevil, aren’t you? I heard stories, but I never quite believed them until now. You really are just a kid.” She sounds almost sad. “How old are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Irrelevant,” Matt mutters. “How do you know about me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s my job to know things,” she says unapologetically. “I’m a reporter. Karen Page. And you just saved my life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt says nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Karen lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Okay. Look. I gotta call the cops about this guy. But my apartment is right around the corner. Maybe I can take a look at the leg?” Sensing his hesitation she adds: “You want a sandwich? I could do you a sandwich.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The “you look hungry” goes unsaid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should give a statement to the police.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shakes her head. “No. I know this guy. They’ve got a warrant out for him anyway. Please,” she adds. “I owe you. Let me help?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He should go. Hanging around reporters is a bad idea. But his leg really is starting to hurt, and he’s pretty hungry. Plus Karen said she knows things. Maybe she’ll know who the Irish guy is!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” he relents. “But the mask stays on. And you have to promise not to write about me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Deal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that’s how Matt ends up sitting on Karen Page’s couch, eating an amazing sandwich and drinking hot cocoa while Karen cleans and bandages his leg. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It probably needs stitches,” she says. Her hands are shaking a little. “Are you sure I can’t drive you to the ER? We can say you’re my nephew or something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt shakes his head. “I can stitch it at home,” he says through a mouthful of sandwich.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, okay...” Karen sounds dubious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really, I’ve done it before,” Matt tells her earnestly, but that doesn’t seem to help. “Who was that guy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s with the Dogs of Hell. I managed to piss a few of them off a while back. I should have been more careful. If you hadn’t been around...” She shudders, then sticks a dressing over the wound. “There. That should keep it clean at least.” Matt tugs his jeans back up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Karen sits down beside him. “You wanna tell me how a kid like you ends up running around Hell’s Kitchen in a mask?” She says gently. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt shakes his head. “I just want to help people.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You could get killed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You saw me fight. I can look after myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. And I saw you get shot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Grazed!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, grazed. Even so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There is something,” he says cautiously, and Karen perks up. “You said you know things. Maybe you could help me. I’m looking for this guy who killed m- someone. He’s got an Irish accent, and he pays boxers to throw fights for money. But that’s all I know,” he mumbles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nobody comes to mind,” she says apologetically, and Matt’s heart sinks. “But I can ask around for you.” She pauses, thinking, then stands up. “If he paid boxers to throw fights, he probably bribes other athletes too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt hadn’t thought of that. “You really think you can find him?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t make any promises. But I’ll try. It’s the least I can do. Do you have a phone?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” Matt knows you can get phones for blind people these days, but he has no idea where or how to work one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay... Well, I guess you could come back and see me in a week? And I’ll tell you if I’ve found anything.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Matt makes it three days. Then he can’t take the wait anymore, so he scrambles up to Karen’s window that night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It sounds like she’s asleep. Matt’s not sure how late it is. He pretty much operates on a night versus day timescale he judges by the sounds of the city and the air temperature. But Matt can’t navigate New York in the day, so he takes a deep breath and raps on the glass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Karen mumbles groggily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s me,” he whispers, then remembers not everyone has super-powered hearing, and knocks on the window again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kid?” Karen says, suddenly sounding wide awake. She opens the window and Matt climbs in gratefully. “Is everything okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just wanted to know if you found out anything about that guy yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s three in the morning,” she says, but sounds more confused than annoyed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess I'm up now." She yawns. "You want a sandwich?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please!” Matt says, suddenly starving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She watches him eat it at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee herself. “You get enough to eat at home?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” In a manner of speaking. “Did you find anything?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I haven’t got a name. Not yet. But,” there’s a rustle of paper and Matt realises she’s showing him something, “I have these. Sporting bet winnings from the last five years. All we need to do is go through and find the names that show up a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt pretends to examine the paperwork. “That’s amazing,” he says, and means it. There’s a lot Matt can do, but reading written records isn’t one of them. He’d never have been able to do this alone even if he’d thought to. “Wait, we?” Crap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you could help me?” As if sensing his panic, she reassures him: “It’s just looking for the names that crop up a lot. You could draw a line under those names and I can go over them?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jack Murdock,” Matt blurts out. “Battlin’ Jack Murdock. That’s the name of one of the boxers. He would have been paid to- to lose.” His heart pounds, and he starts to worry until he remembers Karen can’t hear it beating away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Karen says. “That’s actually super helpful. See? The names of the boxers are in the name of the “match” bet on. Can you go through and circle any of the ones with his name in?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt freezes. “I can’t,” he says distantly. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t what? You can’t read?” Karen says, and a horrible pity seeps into her voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He detests it. Acting like he’s stupid when he knows he’s been top of every class he’s had since second grade. But what choice does he have? He can’t exactly tell her he’s blind. He shakes his masked head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s okay, don’t worry,” Karen says, but her heart says otherwise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he says again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, don’t be sorry. With the name of the boxer, this is gonna be way quicker.” She pauses, and Matt thinks she’s looking him up and down. “You can stay if you like? I have a TV and the couch is all yours.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She waves him off. “I’m awake now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He ends up dozing off. Karen shakes him awake hours later. “I think I found your guy,” she says excitedly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt slowly sits up. He’s been covered in a fleecy blanket while he slept. “You found him?” He says stupidly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Roscoe Sweeney. Multiple Jack Murdock fights he’s come out completely rolling in it. And tons of others besides. Irish name, too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roscoe Sweeney. Roscoe Sweeney is the man who killed Dad. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he says, stunned. He sits up, instinctively wrapping himself in the blanket. There’s no way he would have gotten this far without her. “Do you- do you want to keep working together?” He says, detesting how his voice wavers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s silent for a little while, then nods resolutely. “Yeah, of course I’ll help you. You want this guy to go to jail, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.” After Matt’s finished with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then we need to be smart. You can’t just go charging in. We’ve got to get real, hard evidence on who this guy is and what he’s doing. He’s got enforcers, money… probably some cops in his pocket. We don’t know what his criminal ties are, if he’s with the mob.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt nods, impressed. “Could start by asking around, see how people respond when they hear his name,” he suggests.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’d need to be careful. We don’t want him to get wind of what we’re doing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know some people.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll look into his public image. If I can get an address, maybe you could scope it out? Given that you just crawled up four stories without being detected, somehow I doubt you’re going to struggle with that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt preens. “I have very good hearing,” he allows. “I can hear things from outside buildings.” It’s probably more than he should give her, but it could be important in their tactics. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, awesome.” She doesn’t question it and Matt finds himself liking her even more. He almost hugs her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t get too close.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should go,” he says, lifting the blanket off reluctantly. It’s not a lie. It’ll be getting light soon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay kid,” Karen says. “We can meet in a few days. I don’t suppose we could meet in the daytime next time?” She laughs at the expression on Matt’s face. “Alright. Saturday night?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is there anything I can call you? It’s getting kind of awkward calling you “kid” all the time. Feels like you’re my sidekick in a 50s crime noir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How about D?” Matt likes that. It sounds kind of cool.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds good, D.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And the plot continues... now with the addition of Karen! I decided Karen was already going to be a journalist in this verse, because I refuse to believe she'd let anything go even if she didn't have Matt in her life being generally chaotic. I don't think Karen knows exactly what to make of Matt. She recognises that he's very young and potentially quite naive, but he's also got skills most adults wouldn't have. She might as well help him if he's going to do it regardless. Plus, she wouldn't be Karen if she just left a conspiracy theory alone.</p>
<p>Thank you everyone who left a comment on the first chapter! They were really sweet and super motivating, ily all.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Investigations</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Matt investigates Roscoe Sweeney. Karen brings an ally into the fray.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It has been a While and I'm sorry! I've been swamped with deadlines, but here we go. Have a chapter. Everything else is planned out and in the process of being written.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Why do you want to know,” Cora says, taking a drag from her cigarette, “About Roscoe Sweeney?” They’re perched on the wall behind Joey’s in Cora’s break. She smells like an ashtray.</p><p>“He’s a murderer.”</p><p>“Yeah, no shit,” she says, not unkindly. “He’s bad news. And I don’t mean back alley mugger-bad news. He’s deep in mob business and you can’t beat a guy like that with nothing but a pair of sticks and some karate.”</p><p>“I know that,” Matt says, offended. “I’m investigating him. Once we’ve got real evidence of what he’s doing, we’re going to hand it over to a couple of clean cops. With enough evidence, the ones on his side won’t be able to stop an investigation. Then we’ll ruin his name through the media.” Karen had explained the plan the other night. Matt had to admit it sounded smart.</p><p>“Huh. Who’re you working with?”</p><p>“A reporter. Karen Page.”</p><p>“I’ve heard of her,” Cora says thoughtfully. “Likes to stick her nose in places it don’t belong. Now who does that remind me of?” She nudges Matt playfully.</p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>“Wasn’t a criticism! Alright, what do you wanna know?”</p><p>“Anything you’ve got. Who are his guys? What connections does he have?”</p><p>Cora stubbs her current cigarette out and starts another. Matt wrinkles his nose.</p><p>“I don’t know a whole lot,” she admits. “He’s an opportunist, really. Makes his money any way he can. Drug sales, gun sales. Fixes a lot of fights - that’s where he started. Then he lends it to people, with interest. And if they don’t pay up…”</p><p>Bile rises in Matt’s throat and he shoves it down. “He kills them.” He wonders if Cora knows about Dad.</p><p>Cora laughs bitterly. “And sometimes worse than that. He’s a big fan of kneecapping, if you know what that is.” Matt does, and he wishes he didn’t. Her heartbeat spikes a little, and he waits to see if she’ll say something else. It takes another half of a cigarette before she does. “I know a guy,” she says, quietly. “A john. Not a nice guy, but pays well. He’s definitely worked for Sweeney in the past. I dunno where he lives but I can find out for you.”</p><p>“Don’t put yourself in danger.”</p><p>She laughs. “You don’t gotta worry about me, kid. Come see me in a week or so, yeah?” She grabs his hand when he stands. “Hey, you need money or anything you just ask, okay? Food, place to sleep, whatever you need.”</p><p><em> Don’t get too close </em>.</p><p>Matt steps backward. “I’m fine.”</p><p>“Yeah, we’ve all been ‘fine’. Doesn’t change what I’m saying.” Cora sighs. “Stay safe, double D.”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Matt appreciates Cora’s offer, but he doesn’t need it. Daredevil needs no one.</p><p>From now on, whenever he knocks down anyone associated with organised crime he pelts them with questions about gang activity, carefully inserting Sweeney in there to see if their body reacts to the name. Most of the time they laugh at him and tell him nothing, but if their heart spikes loud enough when they hear the name Roscoe Sweeney he knows to start kicking. </p><p>Sweeney is involved in a lot more than just betting, Matt learns. He was raised in Ireland, brought over to Hell’s Kitchen as a teenager. Until a few years ago he was making most of his money through corrupt betting on boxers all over New York, but he grew in influence after the incident thanks to some guy called “Kingpin”. (Matt shelves that information for later.) He started dealing in drugs, guns and stolen cars on top of the betting and now he’s heavily involved in money-lending, which was probably why Dad’s win made him so mad.</p><p>The lending is serious. Matt meets a guy named Lewis Carver, a man who owes Sweeney money and is due to be given “incentive” to pay any day now. At gunpoint.</p><p>He tips off the police, who promptly arrest and release the perpetrators without charge. Karen was right; there must be some kind of connection between Sweeney and the cops.</p><p>“You should run,” he tells Carver. “I tried to stop the men after you but the police let them go. They’ll be back, and soon.”</p><p>“I knew they’d come. I didn’t think it would be so soon.” The man grasps at Matt’s hand, leaving a layer of fear and sweat. “I knew they’d come.”</p><p>“You need to get out of the city. I’m going to try and stop him, but if the police are on his side there’s not much I can do for you, not right now.”</p><p>“I can’t leave, I can’t! There’s nowhere to go!” </p><p>Sometimes he thinks about killing Sweeney; about marching into that mansion and snapping his fat neck. He dreams it. <em> “You killed my Dad, and now I’m going to kill you!” </em>Sweeney cowers and cries, begging for forgiveness that Matt will never, ever give, but he always wakes up before he can carry out the act.</p><p>Maybe it’s a message from God. Maybe he’s just too much of a coward. But when he thinks about his dad, he knows his dad is the real reason. It’s not what he would have wanted. Stick would have told Matt to kill Sweeney. <em> What are you waiting for Matty </em>, he says in the dreams. But Dad believed in life. He believed in justice, in Thurgood Marshall after Matt explained the ideas and concepts to him. Matt wishes he still had his Marshall texts. Maybe if he reread them it would be easier.</p><p>He tries not to think about his dad often. It’s a distraction he doesn’t need. Grief is a hinderance; Matt can grieve after Sweeney is locked up. But when he’s tired, or scared, or slipping, it’s Dad’s voice reassuring him.</p><p><em> Get to work, Matty </em>. </p><p>And Matt gets to work.</p><p>Cora finally gets him the address of her john and the man sings after just a couple of blows. There’s no way he’s going to tell Sweeney anything about Matt if he ever wants to walk properly again, so he doesn’t even have to pretend it’s not Sweeney he’s after. He gets name after name which he feeds back to Karen with relish.</p><p>He speaks to a woman whose husband loses fights for Sweeney and it’s eerie how similar her story is to Matt’s. </p><p>“He won’t stop. The money’s too good. I keep telling him to quit before he ends up like that other guy, but he won’t.” Her hands shake as she lights a cigarette and she holds onto the lighter like a lifeline. Matt doesn’t have to ask who <em> that other guy </em>is. </p><p>On the night he learns where Sweeney’s men store their drugs and weaponry, he stands at the edge of the river and whoops. Quiet at first and then louder, so loudly that the sound bounces across the water and brings everything into sharp, bright focus. He does a couple of handsprings and a front tuck, laughing when he imagines what Stick would say. </p><p><em> “Waste of energy Matty,” </em>he’d say and he’d be right, but in this moment Matt couldn’t give less of a shit.</p><p>It’s a simple garage of all places, but it burns beautifully. </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Fall sets in. Matt has so much more night to work with. He’s a little worried about the oncoming cold, when he has time to worry. At some point he’ll try and get hold of a coat, but for now he makes up for it by keeping moving, returning home only when he’s too exhausted to feel the chill.</p><p>Karen is alarmed, although she tries not to show it, so he tends to the cuts and scrapes himself.</p><p>“Hey D,” she says when he next climbs through the window, panting a little, and he can hear the smile in her voice.</p><p>“Hey Karen. You got anything for me?”</p><p>“I ordered pizza, it should be here pretty soon.”</p><p>“I meant case stuff!” Matt retorts, but his mouth is watering like crazy. “What kind?”</p><p>“I got a margarita, a meatlovers, and uh, a feta-olive.” She sounds almost nervous and for a moment he wonders why.</p><p>Then there’s the sound of the elevator doors opening along the hall and Matt stiffens. Three pizzas, but it’s not the delivery guy and that’s too many for just the two of them. “Karen, who else is coming?” He says, voice level.</p><p>“A friend of mine. He’s trustworthy, I swear-” </p><p>Matt is already backing towards the window. Stupid, stupid to trust her.</p><p>“Please, D. We need him. He’s helped me out of some really tight spots before now. You can trust him.” She stops, staring at her hands. She doesn’t move to get up. “You can trust me.” </p><p>Her heart says she’s honest.</p><p>There’s a rhythmic knock on the door. They both jump. “Can I let him in?” Karen asks softly. Matt hesitates. She doesn’t move.</p><p>“Okay,” he says finally. </p><p>But he follows her to the door and hones in on the electric buzzing of the light switch until he can flick it off. Just in case.</p><p>Karen sighs.</p><p>“I come bearing pizza!” The guy announces when she opens the door. “Uh, Karen, is there a reason why you’re hanging around in the dark?” The visitor fumbles for the light switch. </p><p><em> “No,” </em>Matt growls, and the stranger proceeds to drop all three pizzas.</p><p>“<em>Jesus Christ! </em>”</p><p>“Don’t blaspheme,” Matt scolds him automatically.</p><p>“Karen, what the hell is happening?” The guy’s heart jackhammers. Good. He should be scared.</p><p>Karen sighs again, picks up the pizzas and slams the door shut behind the stranger. “Foggy, meet D, AKA Daredevil, devil-boy, little devil of Hell’s Kitchen. D, meet Foggy. He’s a lawyer, and one of my closest friends.”</p><p>“Daredevil? Seriously? You’re real?” Matt’s not really sure how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. Foggy takes a step back. “Nice to meet you. Karen, why and how do you know this kid?”</p><p>“He saved my life. And now we’re working together to take down a mobster,” she says bluntly. “We need your help.” Matt snorts derisively at this. “I thought we could all sit down, have some pizza and talk about next steps?”</p><p>“Okay, first of all, mobster? Karen, do you have a death wish? And second of all,” Foggy sighs, “Do we really have to do this in the dark?”</p><p>“Yes,” Matt tells him.</p><p>“How are we supposed to eat pizza in the dark-”</p><p>“You eat with your eyes?”</p><p>“How about a candle?” Karen interrupts diplomatically. She and Foggy swivel their heads in Matt’s direction.</p><p>Matt nods, then remembers they can’t see it. “I guess that’s fine.”</p><p>“Cozy!” Foggy comments, and it’s decided.</p><p>They sit around the candle to eat while Karen explains what they know. </p><p>“Most of this evidence won’t be admissible though, you realise that?” Foggy says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Not in a court of law.”</p><p>“But in a court of opinion? It’ll be damning,” Karen insists. “That’s what we need. And it’ll be enough to get the police to investigate. Maybe the FBI.”</p><p>“I guess,” Foggy says dubiously. “Still doesn’t explain what you need me for.” </p><p>“Well...”</p><p>“Oh, great,” Foggy sighs. “I know where this is going,” he says to Matt. “She does this to me every time.”</p><p>Karen ignores him. “In two nights, Roscoe Sweeney is attending a charity function with his wife and daughter. His house - and most importantly his office, where he keeps all his files - will be empty.”</p><p>“I can already tell this is going to be a terrible plan. You think he doesn’t have some kind of security system in place?”</p><p>“Not if I disable it while you and D break in through the window and take pictures of every piece of paperwork you can find.” </p><p>Foggy gawps at her. “Are you saying you’re sending me into danger instead of you?”</p><p>“Do you know how to rewire electrical systems, Foggy?”</p><p>“Isn’t there a safer way of doing this?”</p><p>“He’s hurting people <em> now </em> ,” Matt cuts in. “He’s hurt people. Killed people. Ruined people’s lives,” and his voice wobbles a little. “And he’ll do it again and again until we stop him. There isn’t time to <em> wait. </em>” He tastes salt, and is grateful for his mask.</p><p>“D can’t go alone,” Karen says firmly, and Matt’s grateful that she doesn’t mention the whole illiterate thing.</p><p>Foggy swallows. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll do it. But if I get caught or killed, I’m suing.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Matt supposes Foggy is alright when you get to know him. He listens carefully to all the details of Karen’s plan and even makes notes, if Matt’s hearing correctly. He even brings donuts to their next meeting.</p><p>And then there they are, crouched under a hedge in Sweeney’s enormous garden and waiting for Karen’s signal.</p><p>“What kind of law do you practice?” Matt asks.</p><p>“I’m a defense attorney. Means I represent criminal defendants. They deserve a fair trial as much as anyone,” he says pointedly. </p><p>“In recognizing the humanity of our fellow beings, we pay ourselves the highest tribute,” Matt quotes.</p><p>“You know Thurgood Marshall,” Foggy says, surprised. “And yet you spend your nights beating criminals up.”</p><p>“I stop them from hurting people. I can still believe they deserve a fair trial. Besides, a lot of the people in jail are innocent. I only beat up the guilty.”</p><p>“You could call the police.”</p><p>“I could. But the police aren’t worth <em> shit </em> ,” Matt says vehemently. “They don’t get there in time. And when they do, half the time they make it worse. I’m better at dealing with victims than they are, and I’m <em> eleven </em>.” He remembers how they’d dragged him off Dad, screaming and crying.  </p><p>To his surprise, Foggy simply nods. “Fair point.” </p><p>“Time to go, D,” Karen says from far off. “Cameras looped, alarm inactive.”</p><p>“Time to go,” Matt repeats to Foggy. </p><p>“How do you-?” Foggy starts but Matt is already taking off. He should stop getting involved. It’s not like he has much chance of becoming a lawyer now.</p><p>“Come on,” he says instead. “We don’t have a lot of time.”</p><p>He picks the lock quickly and carefully, before hauling himself in. Foggy follows with surprising speed and makes a beeline for… something. Metal? A filing cabinet. Matt has no idea how to help, so he lurks by the window, pretending to be listening for threats. As if he needed to be concentrating to hear anyone coming. Instead, he catalogues the house. Now that he’s inside, he instantly recalls the smell of expensive cigars, whiskey and some unidentifiable brand of cologne. There’s something else that throws him at first because it’s so unexpected, something Matt recognises from St Agnes. Baby. There’s a baby living here.</p><p>Foggy mutters to himself. Matt catches the repeated clicks of a camera-phone. The man stops. “Now that’s interesting,” he says. </p><p>Matt snaps his head in Foggy’s direction. “What.”</p><p>Foggy holds up something undefinable. “Burner phones,” he explains, to Matt’s relief. “Used. I bet there’s information on them.” He pulls it apart with a snap and examines it. His heartbeat spikes and he recoils. </p><p>“What is it?” Matt demands, bounding to Foggy’s side.</p><p>“Bodies. Actual corpses. There’s texts too, commands, it looks like. Jesus. Sorry, blasphemy again. It looks like he sends orders through these and asks for proof that whatever he wanted done is… done. You don’t wanna see this.”</p><p>Matt snorts. “I won’t,” he promises. “We can’t take them, can we? It won’t be admissible.”</p><p>“No,” Foggy agrees. “We have to leave everything as we found it. We can’t let him know we’re onto him. And anyway, if we took this to the police now, they’d cover it up. I’ll take some pictures of the phone itself, but after that… it’s gonna need to go right back into the drawer.” </p><p>Foggy says something else, but Matt can’t make out the words. He crouches low, hugging his chest to his knees. He feels like he’s gonna puke from rage alone; it rises from his chest to his throat and threatens to choke him. Foggy touches his shoulder and he jolts upright, swings an elbow and misses Foggy’s head by inches.</p><p>“Sorry, sorry!” Foggy’s saying and Matt can’t understand why. “Hey, hey. It’s okay.” He places his hands on Matt’s shoulders. “Breathe. There you go,” he says. He sounds even more worried than he did before.</p><p><em> Focus, Matty </em>. </p><p>Matt pulls himself together. “I’m going to take a look around,” he says, darting from the room. Foggy remains still for far too long.</p><p>He wanders aimlessly through the place for a while, tracing his hands along the walls and relaxing his senses until he knocks into a footstool. There’s a huge kitchen, even bigger than the one at St Agnes’. Rooms with pool tables; wine cellars; cabinets reeking of polish. Every now and then Matt catches traces of blood and cocaine. </p><p>Then he catches the scent again - the baby smell. Now that he’s closer he realises the kid’s older than he initially assumed; maybe four or five. Young enough to still be wearing pull-ups at night, old enough to be somewhere away from home. The room is thick with Sweeney’s cologne, but no cigar smoke. Figures Sweeney would protect his own child from the evils of lung disease but leave a newly blinded boy without a father.</p><p>He comes across the master bedroom and crawls under the bed. If he stayed here, laid in wait, Sweeney could be dead by morning.</p><p>He must have dozed off, because one moment he’s thinking about the hole he’d felt in Dad’s skull, the next he’s hearing Foggy’s frantic whisper from downstairs. “D,” he’s hissing, “I know you gotta be able to hear me right now. We need to get going.”</p><p>Karen resets the alarm and drives them a safe distance away before any of them speak. "I know that look," she says to Foggy when they're situated in some shitty parking lot. "What did you find?" </p><p>Foggy hands over his phone silently. Matt can hardly breathe. </p><p>“Pictures of pictures,” Karen says drily.</p><p>“Better than nothing. But brace yourself. They’re not pretty.” </p><p>Karen says nothing as she flicks through the photos. Then gasps. “That’s Murdock.”</p><p>Matt goes cold.</p><p>“The tie between Murdock and Sweeney is pretty much the biggest piece of evidence we have!” She says excitedly. “With this added on, this is damning! If we got the police to search his place he’d go down; he’d have to.”</p><p>Matt should have stayed under that bed.</p><p>Karen’s words fade into meaningless vowels but her tone doesn’t. She’s pleased, and logically Matt knows that she should be; this is a vital development. It means there’s concrete evidence of what Sweeney’s doing. But it makes him want to scream.</p><p>“Hey, kid, are you okay?” Foggy. Radiating concern like a beacon. Matt realises he’s digging his nails deep into his palms. The man takes his hands. “You don’t need to do this,” he’s saying quietly. “You’ve done so much, we can take it from here and he’ll go away for life, I swear.”</p><p>Matt drags his hands away. “I’m fine.” He yanks at the door handle, stumbling from the car. </p><p>“Wait, D-” one of them says and Matt hates them for their useless, unnecessary pity. Sweeney’s gala is less than forty minutes on foot. He takes a deep breath, and runs.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Attack</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Matt makes a rash decision.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have been so unbelievably swamped with essay deadlines I am pretty much no longer a person, just an extended list of footnotes and "furthermores". However! Current essay-beast is completed and I was able to finish this chapter.</p>
<p>Warnings for violence.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Matt runs until his mouth tastes like iron and his teeth feel like they’ll fall out, until his legs wobble with every step and his muscles burn and tear. He runs until he falls, picks himself up and runs again. When he falls for the second time, grazing his hands on the rough sidewalk, he rolls onto his back and lets himself hyperventilate. It’s a relief to finally let it out. He counts to ten, then twenty, then a hundred, like Stick taught him. Then, like Stick taught him, he gets up and keeps going.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has to make it to the gala before it finishes. He has no idea what time it is. He only vaguely knows where he’s going; it takes all his concentration to pick out the objects on the street so he doesn’t go flying. He focuses on the familiar and recognisable scent of Hell’s Kitchen, closer and closer with every breath. If he makes it that far, he just has to follow his feet to the concert hall Sweeney’s been spending his entire evening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He collapses in a gasping, shuddering heap in the parking lot out back, folds himself up behind a stinking dumpster and focuses primarily on not retching. Oddly, it calms him down more than the counting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sweeney’s in there. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Focus, Daredevil</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Listen.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt listens. It’s not easy, filtering through all the meaningless conversation, poor attempts at flirting, servers complaining and laughing amongst themselves. Then he’s slammed back in his dream, Roscoe Sweeney telling him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>go down in the fifth</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s him. Laughing. “You’re smarter than your old man, sweetheart,” he’s saying. “French literature! Never imagined I’d be sitting in a place like this learning about French literature from my kid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s unmistakably Roscoe Sweeney. And he’s laughing, drinking champagne with his daughter, chatting about French-fucking-literature, as if Matt’s dad isn’t in the ground, isn’t cold and lifeless with blood steadily pumping from the hole in his skull. In Matt’s mind, he’s still bleeding. He’ll always be bleeding.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dad will never tell Matt he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>smarter than his old man </span>
  </em>
  <span>again. They’ll never drink champagne at his college graduation. Matt will never pass the bar because he’s not in school and that’s Sweeney’s fault too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then there’s a vibration. “I gotta go take this,” Sweeney’s telling the girl, already pulling out of his seat. Matt hones in on dense plastic and metal, realising that it’s another burner; another phone filled with commands and orders and dead dads.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt scrambles to his feet but he’s not concentrating properly and ends up sprawled across the concrete. Irritated, he reaches out and touches rough tile, tracing the shape with his fingers. He’s still holding it when Sweeney steps out, already flicking the phone open and barking a “What?” into the receiver. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt lets his instincts take over. He hurls the tile at Sweeney’s head as hard as he possibly can. Sweeney topples and the phone skitters off. He’s more confused than afraid, clutching his head and looking around as if the projectile came from above. By the time he notices Matt, Matt’s already letting the first punch fly. One, two, uppercut, hook. He straddles him, furious at his warmth, at the conflicting smells of good food and ashy cigars, and keeps punching. “Murderer!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He touches something with his foot; the tile. He brings it down onto Sweeney’s nose, once, twice, three times. The crack is all he hears. Sweeney screams like a stuck pig and Matt tastes blood as it splatters. Again. He remembers Sweeney’s supposed to know why he’s being punished and tries to tell him, but the words won’t come. Only gasping, howling sobs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone screams. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Call the cops!” Someone else yells. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus, is that a kid?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone grabs Matt under the armpits, hauling him off Sweeney and attempting some kind of restraint move. Matt writhes free and kicks Sweeney in the head. He picks up the tile. But it’s like the moment in his dream. He’s stuck still, panting covered in Sweeney’s blood and snot. It’s like he’s glued there, and he hesitates too long. Someone else tackles him and his head bounces hard on the concrete.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dad!” Sobs someone. It’s French Literature. She’s crying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt thinks he’ll be sick. “Dad,” he finds himself saying. “Dad, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The weight on his back loosens, a mistake, and self-preservation kicks in. Matt sinks his teeth into warm flesh, twists himself out of the hold, grabs Sweeney’s dropped burner and runs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s dizzy, running blind, tripping over curbs and into dumpsters and walls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears sirens and he’s too slow, he knows, they’ll find him and think he’s fucked in the head and they’ll be right. They’ll call the orphanage - unless Sweeney’s already found him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“D!” Foggy. Matt’s not sure if he should be afraid or relieved, so he settles for the latter, stumbling into him and clinging onto him like a lifeline.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Foggy, I screwed up, I screwed up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, no shit! We gotta get you out of here.” He leads them through alley after alley. It’s only when Foggy starts to tug Matt’s hoodie over his head that he becomes aware enough to protest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you can’t!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re too recognisable. You have to let me take it or I can’t get you out of here. Mask too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt squirms free. “No,” he repeats, dazed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“D, please. You have to trust me. You can put it straight back on once we’re out of the cab. But I can’t get you away from here on foot, and I can’t get into a cab with Daredevil.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before pulling Matt towards him again and tugging off the hoodie and stuffing it into his messenger bag. “I’m not looking, I’m not looking,” he soothes Matt when he pulls off the mask. Matt screws up his eyes just in case. Then Foggy’s lifting him up with a grunt. Matt tells himself that burying his head in Foggy’s shoulder is to hide his face, but he’s not kidding anyone, not even himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s vaguely aware of Foggy bundling them into a cab and telling the cab driver his nephew isn’t feeling well, of the cab driver expressing sympathy before warning Foggy that if Matt pukes he’s paying for it. He’s pretty sure Foggy strokes his hair. Then they’re getting out, Matt’s being carried into an elevator and Foggy’s tying Matt’s mask back over his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next time he comes around, he’s laying on something soft, covered in a blanket and fiddling with a bag of frozen vegetables on his head. “Fggy,” he mutters, sitting up. His head hurts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m here, D.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where are we?” His head’s all over the place. He can’t even tell if they’re in Hell’s Kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My place. I brought you back here after whatever the hell that was last night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did you know where I was?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not difficult to guess where you were headed.” He collapses into the chair opposite Matt, head in his hands. “Why would you do that? You could have killed him.” He doesn’t sound mad, just very, very tired.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow that’s worse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He’d deserve it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Matt wants to say. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My dad’s dead because of him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I don’t know,” he says instead, and realises he’s crying. “There’s something wrong with me.” He forgot about Dad. He was so lost in the rage that he forgot the reason why he’s doing this in the first place. “We have to stop him. We have to. But not like that, it’s the wrong way. I know it’s the wrong way. I just got so lost. I forgot...” He stops.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Foggy smells afraid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes him a long time to speak. “I don’t know what happened to you. What he did to you. But killing him? That isn’t you. You can’t let him turn you into a killer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t know me! I could be a psycho, a murderer, and you wouldn’t know! Why aren’t you scared of me?” He hates how his voice wavers and hates Foggy for not hating him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think that if you really wanted that man dead, he’d be dead. I don’t think the kid who runs around Hell’s Kitchen saving lives every night is a killer.” He sighs. “That being said, I think you should stop being Daredevil. I think it’s hurting you, and I think Karen and I can finish this without your help. I know you hate being called a child. You think I haven’t noticed? But you are one. The fact that a literal child is running around New York as a vigilante is all kinds of messed up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not going to stop. You don’t understand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I don’t. And I know I can’t stop you from going out there, which is the only reason why I’m helping you instead of trying to make you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt remembers the burner, heavy in his pocket. Silently, he passes it to Foggy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where did you get this? From the house? I thought we said we’d leave everything behind-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I- Sweeney was holding it when I attacked him.” Matt shuffles backward, tucking himself in between the cushions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Foggy opens it up. Matt wishes he could do it himself; he hates the not-knowing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not as bad as the one with the bodies,” Foggy says finally. “But it would still stand up in court. There’s some fairly incriminating stuff. Take a look.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He proffers the phone and Matt recoils. “No,” he says weakly. “I trust you. Just give it to Karen. Is there anything I should check out?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Foggy says, but his heart rate rockets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Foggy.” Matt tilts his masked head directly at him. He can’t exactly glare with his mask on but it’s enough to make the guy squirm. </span>
  <span>Foggy sighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, alright. But honestly, I don’t think you need to. We should stick it out with the evidence we’ve got.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt shakes his head resolutely. He’ll put a spanner in the works of as many of Sweeney’s operations as he possibly can, so help him. “Tell me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know if whatever it is is still going ahead, but someone texted him about a meeting next Thursday, outside a place called Fogwell’s gym?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt tenses. He can’t believe Sweeney’s still going there, the sick fuck. “When.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Foggy reads the rest of the conversation to him. “Just be careful, okay? I’m gonna write all this stuff down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matt settles into the couch cushions, allowing himself to close his eyes. He tries not to close them too much unless he’s sleeping, but right now he needs a break. He listens to the sounds of the apartments around him. Someone’s radio is blaring: </span>
  <em>
    <span>A young caucasian boy has violently assaulted a man… danger to himself and others… should not be approached. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Matt brings himself back quickly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Be honest with me,” Foggy says, breaking the silence. “You said you’re thirteen, but I know that’s a lie. How old are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eleven.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To his surprise, Foggy seems relieved. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that’s good. It means you can’t be tried as an adult if you get caught. But even so - shit. If Sweeney’s got men on the inside…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not going to get caught.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not if you stop now. Let us finish this-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No! Foggy, I’m not going to stop!” Matt gets up, dislodging the blanket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, alright.” He sighs, defeated. “They’ll still be looking for you, you should probably stay here until morning. I’ve got Netflix if you want to watch something. Plenty of food. Or you can just get some rest.” He yawns. “I have to go into work in the morning. Are you going to be okay if I go get some sleep?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, of course,” Matt says. He sits back down. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I’m just…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“On edge,” Foggy says kindly. “I know.” He sounds like he does, too. He makes a show of fetching Matt the TV remote which Matt has no idea how to use, showing him the fridge and the cupboard where he keeps his snacks, grabbing him more frozen peas for his head and coaxing him back onto the sofa. He spends the night listening to the radio, and wishing that he wasn't.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s almost comically normal, the next morning. Foggy pours them cereal, which they eat in tired silence. Foggy insists he take some food with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then Matt’s standing shivering outside Foggy’s apartment building in his t-shirt with a carrier bag of snacks and his hoodie, while rush hour swirls around him. He can hardly remember the last time he went out without his hoodie and mask. He feels naked. Anyone in this crowd could recognise him as Jack Murdock’s missing boy and he wouldn’t know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He clings onto the railing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he tells himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve lived alone for months and now you’re beat by a couple of noisy assholes? Move, before someone sees you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He walks like he did when he first went blind, tracing the railing with his hand and focusing on each step. Then he follows the curb with his feet, step by step. He thinks of each body as a weapon coming his way. Sidestep. Dodge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wriggles into his basement window, wraps himself up in his hoodie, and finally gets some sleep.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Any comment is a big fat hug for Matt (and by extension, me). Please, he needs one. Next chapter should be up soon!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Fogwell's</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Matt investigates the meeting at Fogwell's gym.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hawkguys_and_Coffee/pseuds/Hawkguys_and_Coffee">Hawkguys_and_Coffee</a> made an amazing cover for this fic which I completely forgot to link until now! It's awesome and you should definitely go check it out <a href="https://www.wattpad.com/1037450111?utm_source=ios&amp;utm_medium=link&amp;utm_content=share_reading&amp;wp_page=reading_part_end&amp;wp_uname=Horcrux_Hunter394&amp;wp_originator=f0orHG0oQ3hB62U%2F%2Fw0bjmVX3Eur4sF1%2BvPXa5GkF2bp1nugIMdDL%2BLEFG4GipgJsjsOEf9PBa6IQQLYMSgd6NwGiaeJd7lZ6aDeoAxvC3pdkpsQ5hW0P3FDYdAtTX3D">here</a>!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Cora’s perched on her usual wall. She doesn’t seem surprised when Matt wordlessly settles himself beside her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Media always makes a big deal out of this stuff,” she says by way of greeting. “I know you ain’t what they say about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re not lying,” Matt tells her quietly. “I nearly killed him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugs, tapping her feet against the wall they’re perched on. “But you didn’t.” She reaches for a cigarette and stops when she sees Matt cringe. She squeezes his hand. “When I was a kid,” she says softly, “I was in and out of juvie. Sometimes it was my fault, sometimes it wasn’t. But I’ve known kids who’ve killed. And you ain’t like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt swallows. “My dad- he’d hate me. If he knew. He’s dead.” It sounds so small when he says it like that. He doesn’t know why it feels so important for him to be honest. He hasn’t exactly been forthcoming before and Cora hasn’t taken it personally. But it feels right to share; she’s shared enough with Matt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t make it a big deal, which helps. “You got on with your dad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was the best dad,” Matt says defensively. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I miss him so hard it hurts</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he doesn’t say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really think he’d hate you for fucking up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” Matt kicks moodily at the wall. “He’d hate what I’ve become.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cora’s silent for a while. “Maybe I never knew your dad,” she says. “But if he was a good guy like you say he was, I don’t see how he could ever hate Daredevil. Would he be worried? Probably. But hate you? Kid, you’ve saved people’s lives! There are people walking around right now who wouldn’t be if you weren’t there.” She clenches her jaw and swallows hard. “Most people wouldn’t give a shit about someone like me getting hurt in a short skirt late at night. If I went to the police they’d laugh in my face; But you? You listened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Matt says. He still can’t get French Literature's cry out of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A smashed up face is less than he deserves. You don’t have to do it again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He killed my dad,” Matt says to his shoes. “He was the only person I had and Sweeney knew it. And he killed him anyway. Shot him,” and Matt points his fingers to the centre of his forehead, “Right here. I found the body,” he adds. It’s oddly easy to disconnect himself from it. Like it happened to someone else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s fucked up, kid.” Her heartbeat doesn’t spike. She’s not shocked, or disgusted, or pitying. “I think if you wanted to kill him it’d be reasonable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want him to see justice,” Matt says. “And that isn’t the same thing. I want him to own up to what he did and to be held accountable. Before all this, I wanted to be a lawyer. I don’t think that’s going to happen anymore,” he laughs bitterly. “But I still believe in the law, crappy as it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not? You’re smart, you could get a scholarship.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cora, I don’t even go to school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re on the streets.” It isn’t a question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a place. But yeah,” Matt admits. “I was in care, but I left so I could focus on getting Sweeney.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are one crazy kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt laughs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t get much done over the next week. He’s tired in a way he couldn’t really explain to anyone else, and it’s not just the concussion. Cora would get it, but he doesn’t want to bother her again. Mostly he sleeps, bundling himself up in his blankets and waking up confused and disoriented. Then he remembers the meeting at Fogwell’s and realises he’s lost track of what day it is. He has to go ask Cora. Early hours of Thursday morning, she tells him, and he thanks her and leaves without explaining why he’d needed to ask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels like an age since he spent those weeks hiding away up on the roof of the gym, but when he climbs up that evening, he finds that his little hideaway has been undisturbed. He tucks himself under the blanket he hadn’t realised he’d left there and shivers. Even with multiple layers of shirts under his hoodie, he’s feeling the chill. He really needs to get that coat. He listens to William and Big Samuel sparring, little huffs and grunts as each hit connects. They hug, after, and Matt remembers how bone-crushingly tightly Big Sam used to hug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has no idea of what time it is and he wasn’t sure if anyone would still come, so he’s relieved when several men approach the back entrance and settle in to wait.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What time is it?” One of them complains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nearly seven. He’ll be out in a minute,” the other guy says irritably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s freezing out here,” the first man gripes in a nasal whine, and Matt has to choke back a laugh at that because </span>
  <em>
    <span>no, it clearly isn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “An’ I got places to be. With the boss laid up I’ve got twice as much work as usual </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>Carol keeps gettin’ on at me about the late nights. Finally!” He exclaims when the door opens and a guy steps out. “What took so long?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt had been expecting a boxer, but while this guy stinks of sweat it’s clearly from nerves rather than exertion. “Fogwell agreed,” the guy says, ignoring the slight. Matt doesn’t recognise his voice. “Boss should be able to take 100% ownership, provided Fogwell stays head coach and the name doesn’t change. Won’t be cheap, but it’ll pay back for itself soon enough.” Matt’s head spins. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Why would Fogwell sell? He loves this place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At last some good news!” The nasal guy says. “Got a signing date?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, not yet. Probably have to wait until Mr. Sweeney’s outta hospital.” He sighs. “Jeez, what a nightmare. Old man sounds pretty certain though. He’s getting tired, doesn’t wanna deal with the manager shit no more. Just wants to train his remaining guys in peace.” He laughs nastily. “Murdock might have stolen our money, but you know what? I reckon him going down was the last push we needed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt thinks about how Mr. Fogwell used to save candy for Matt and “Not tell ya Da, otherwise he’ll want one too!” Back when there was the money to send Matt to gymnastics, before the blindness, he’d get Matt to show off crappy handstands and cartwheels and pretend to call </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cirque du Soleil</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the phone. He’d loved Dad, nearly as much as he’d loved the gym. And now he’s selling it, so Sweeney can swallow the place whole. What’s almost worse, Matt realises, is that if Sweeney owns the place after he’s arrested it’ll crash and burn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How bad is it?” One of them is saying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not pretty,” another responds. “And I don’t think he’d mind me saying that neither. His orbital bone is shattered, nose is smashed to pieces. He’s already had one surgery and he’s gonna need more if he ever wants to look the same.” Hah. Good. Sweeney won’t be getting plastic surgery when he’s in jail. “His poor daughter’s beside herself, saw it happen. Think he’s more pissed about that than he is about the rest of it. This’ll cheer him up a bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They catch the little freak that did it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rude.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not yet. But I got men on it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. Can’t have this brat getting in the way of next steps. Reckon he’s working alone though, so we ain’t got too much to worry about. He can take out our guys but there’ll always be more. Especially with what Kingpin’s been doing for Mr. Sweeney.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt’s heard that name mentioned before, several times now. Whatever they’re doing for Sweeney, it can’t be good. Still, the men are wrong. Matt isn’t working alone and he isn’t going to be dismissed that easily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The men say their goodbyes and leave, but the nasally one complains that he can’t go home because he’s got another job to do. Matt scrambles out from his blanket contraption to follow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps to the roofs, not letting the man out of range. He can’t be going far; there’s no way this lazy asshole wouldn’t take a cab if he were. He stops at a small ground floor apartment, knocks sharply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you’re in there,” he says in a sing-song voice. His heartbeat spikes in enjoyment and to Matt’s disgust, arousal. He’s enjoying this. “I haven’t got all night, Terry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt drops lightly onto the street below.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door is opened a crack, enough for an overweight, sweaty and mildly intoxicated man to peer out. He stinks of fear. “What do you want?” Terry mutters. His voice is familiar, although Matt’s not sure where from.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To talk,” the other says happily. “About Mr. Sweeney’s plans. He’d be here in person, but, well, I’m sure you know what happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard,” the man says. He still doesn’t open his door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He needs that gym.” His voice turns hard. “For that, he needs his money.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll get it to you soon George, I swear.” He changes tone. “C’mon man, you know me. I’m hustling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got two weeks. You’re lucky Mr. Sweeney’s laid up, cause otherwise it’d be one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man makes to close the door - and George sticks his foot into the gap, forcing it open to the fat man’s indignant squawk. It’s so stereotypically gangster that Matt almost laughs out loud, but he moves closer just in case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you talk to anyone on the force about this…” he threatens. Matt realises where he recognises the voice. He’s a cop; Matt’s heard him on occasion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t, you know that,” the man whispers. He isn’t lying. “I’d be on the line as much as you. I’ll get the money. Two weeks. I swear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George strides away.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>the cop mutters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Despite his earlier regrets, Matt can’t help but revel in Sweeney’s condition. Matt left his mark and from the sound of it, he’s managed to slow Sweeney down in whatever it is he’s planning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, Sweeney wants to buy Fogwell’s gym. He can’t be allowed to have it, Matt knows for certain, but he isn’t sure why Sweeney wants it in the first place. For a front? To get access to more boxers? The idea of Sweeney strutting around like he - quite literally - owns the place makes Matt wish he’d smashed up more than Sweeney’s face. Fogwell’s already feels tainted by his very presence, but Matt views him as a kind of rot. If he’s scrubbed away now, Fogwell’s will survive. If he isn’t… It won’t be Fogwell’s anymore; just an empty husk infected by a disease named Roscoe Sweeney. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt wanders through the streets, not really patrolling so much as drifting, trying to get the men’s words out of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He listens to conversations and televisions, people returning from shifts or leaving for them. Kids are wished goodnight, or allowed to stay up for </span>
  <em>
    <span>one more episode, please Mom! </span>
  </em>
  <span>His feet carry him out of range of one and soon there’ll be another scene just the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Down one alley he catches laughter and the clink of wet dishes, tasting patchouli and lavender - then catches the fading scent of leather and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Old Spice </span>
  </em>
  <span>deodorant - and realises where he is. Home. Not St Agnes, not the dockyards, but the tiny apartment Matt spent his entire life in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inside, a woman’s voice rings clear as she jokingly scolds her young son - no, not young, he can’t be any older than Matt himself - lights a candle, ruffles his hair. Do they know who lived in the little apartment before? Do they care? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without thinking, he hauls himself up and onto the windowsill - </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>windowsill. His bedroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt aches for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he concentrates, he can smell Dad. For a moment, he pretends he can hear him padding along the hallway in his socks, bursting into the room. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Where the hell have you been, Matty?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’d say, and he’d be so mad, but then he’d grab Matt by the shoulders and pull him tight against his chest, close to his heart, pounding like crazy. Then Matt would go to sleep in his bed and be warm, and in the morning breakfast would be warm too; scrambled eggs and toast instead of cold tuna and protein bars. Suddenly Matt feels freezing and tired and so, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>hungry</span>
  </em>
  <span> he doesn’t think he could ever feel full again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matt drops into the empty room. It doesn’t feel like trespassing, although logically he knows that it is. It hasn’t changed much. There’s a new wardrobe with new clothes and a fresh mattress, but the bed frame hasn’t been replaced and neither has the wallpaper. He touches it, tracing the invisible whorls with his finger. The hook where Matt used to hang his jacket is still there, and still needs tightening. There’s a thick coat hanging there now and he plays with the zip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can vaguely remember going back to the apartment to collect some of his things, but he was too numb to really say goodbye to the place or even pack up his stuff. Sister Anne and Sister Maggie had to do it for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so tired, Dad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone stirs in the kitchen and for a moment he pretends they’re Dad, coming to see why Matt’s still up. He doesn’t want to tear himself away, but he has to, and so his body makes the decision for him. He heads for the window and the cold street below, but not before grabbing the kid’s coat. At least that’s one problem sorted out. Time to get back to work.</span>
</p>
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